


hip quaker, heart shaker

by inarizaki (xixuwus)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Post-Time Skip, a mention of poly sunaosaaka, a mention of ushikage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:21:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25195330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xixuwus/pseuds/inarizaki
Summary: “Who was your first?”
Relationships: Hinata Shouyou/Miya Atsumu
Kudos: 164





	hip quaker, heart shaker

**Author's Note:**

> this was gonna be in something else originally but the vibe didn't match so i made it into this for atsuhina day

Atsumu practices late to avoid seeing Osamu’s stupid face. Osamu these days has sunken eyes with dark circles underneath, a testament to long hours shaping rice and promoting his business, yet despite the small rewards and huge efforts, Osamu smiles more these days. Atsumu wants to blame it on Suna and Akaashi, who have been spending way too much time over at their shared apartment (they might as well live there instead of Atsumu), with their white wines and fuzzy socks cuddled up on the couch watching the latest rom com that Akaashi’s recommended they roast.

Meanwhile, Atsumu sweats his ass off at an empty gym in the middle of the night. 

“What are you doing here?”

The volleyball hits the wall on the opposite side of the gym, but Atsumu doesn’t make a move to go get it. “I should ask you the same thing, Shoyo,” Atsumu retorts, grabbing another volleyball from the basket.

Shoyo drops his bag by the edge of the court. “You’re going to hurt yourself. Go home and rest. It’s not good to over-practice like this.”

Atsumu wants to make some sort of retort about how Shoyo got sick at nationals in high school, but the words won’t come together, like a jumbled ball of thread sitting on the end of his tongue. He ultimately loses the thought of it altogether when he tosses the ball up and smacks it over the net.

“Aren’t you here to practice too?” Atsumu scoffs.

Shoyo doesn’t say anything, lips pulled taut, brows furrowed. Hypocrite. Atsumu smirks to himself. “I’ll toss for you,” he offers.

Shoyo immediately shrugs off his jacket and runs to the court, vibrating with excitement and the need to hit the soul out of his body. In volleyball, your eyes should never leave the ball. Blink and you’ll miss your next toss, your next bump, and suddenly your next whatever is your last. And yet despite that, Atsumu can’t take his eyes off his spiker ( _his_ _spiker_ , his heart repeats).

Atsumu gives Shoyo the toss, watches him fly—“like a bird” would be a disservice to great poets who wordsmith the unique juxtaposition of humans and creature counterparts (“like a bird” is a classic, but cliché and no longer fits an evolved creature like Shoyo anymore). Shoyo does not “fly like a bird”—he flies like someone who never learned the term gravity (one day, a man asked this little boy why gravity was so lenient with his small body, and the boy replied, “What’s gravity?”). 

And when he spikes, when his palm connects with the ball at the right height, the right angle, the right velocity—

Atsumu’s heart shakes. Shoyo locks eyes with Atsumu for a moment before he’s running full speed at him. At nearly six-foot-two, Atsumu is bulldozed by a five-foot-something professional volleyball player who spent at least three years under the heat of Brazil’s sun. They collapse to the floor surrounded by laughter and the scent of citrus.

“Did you see that?!” Shoyo exclaims, sitting up and stumbling over their tangled limbs.

Atsumu’s laugh is cut short as he sits up and flexes his ankle. “Oh, fuck,” he groans, rubbing at his ankle.

Panic and worry flashes across Shoyo’s face as he reaches for Atsumu’s ankle. “Oh my god, I’m sorry. Are you hurt?” He presses on the sore area and Atsumu hisses.

“It’s fine—”

“It’s not fine. What if it’s broken?”

It’s not broken, but Atsumu’s tempted to guilt the fuck out of Shoyo just for the hell of it; however, his benevolence is at an all-time high today, so he just puts a hand on Shoyo’s shoulder. “Let’s keep practicing.” He doesn’t want to forget the feeling—a weightless toss that reaches the heavens paired with the speed of his racing heart, all for a hollow-bone boy who drinks the sun’s fire for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

“No, we’re going to the hospital. Get on.” Shoyo crouches on the floor, gesturing for Atsumu to get onto his back.

“I’m not going to the hospital. It’s not that bad. Besides, I doubt you can carry m—”

Shoyo grabs Atsumu’s wrists and forces his whole torso over his shoulders, strong arms coming underneath his knees to hold him up as he books it out of the gym. The soundtrack to one of those cheesy rom coms Osamu, Akaashi, and Suna are always watching plays in the back of his mind as Shoyo half-jogs down the street. Atsumu is suddenly the leading lady in whatever famous kdrama is playing these days, the damsel clinging to her beau’s shoulders as he carries her to the hospital. He feels small holding onto Shoyo’s shoulders, thighs tight around his hips so he won’t fall down. Shoyo smells like citrus and honey, and it’s all Atsumu can smell while the doctor is checking his ankle (it’s just twisted, not even a sprain; he’ll be better by tomorrow morning with some ice on it).

“You should still let me carry you home,” Shoyo insists as they’re walking back to the gym. “The doctor said it’s  _ inflamed _ . That means it  _ is _ hurt, so you shouldn’t be walking on it.”

Atsumu rolls his eyes. “You can walk me home. I’ll give you that,” he says, grabbing his bag.

Shoyo agrees, follows him step for step and kicks rocks out of the way (“Just in case!”). The walk home is filled with relatively empty banter and inside jokes, small anecdotes about high school friends among other things (most of Atsumu’s stories take place in his apartment and deal with the rats that won’t leave his couch; Shoyo’s stories always end with volleyball). Atsumu doesn’t remember living so close to the gym, but before he knows it, they’re at his front door.

“Thanks for letting me walk you home,” Shoyo says. “I feel bad for hurting your ankle like that, but tomorrow, we’ll get that quick set down for real!”

Atsumu has only been an optimist out of spite (flashback to when he vowed he’d be happier than Osamu at the end of their lifetimes), but Shoyo makes Atsumu look forward to tomorrow’s citrus sunrise.

“Come in for a drink,” Atsumu says.

Atsumu finds out that Shoyo is an open book, and he learns a lot about the people Shoyo hangs out with, whether he’s interested or not. He learns that the former setter for Nekoma is the live streamer who sponsored Shoyo in Brazil and more or less tried to propose to Shoyo at least once (“He tried to buy me a diamond ring, but I said it would look like we were married, and he just went, ‘So?’ I still don’t know if he was joking or not.”); the wallpaper on his phone is a picture of him and his little sister (“This was when Natsu and I went to the park together, and there were a bunch of geese chasing after us.”); his friends in Brazil message him every day (“It’s how I keep practicing my Portuguese. Pedro says I’ve gotten a lot better at grammar.”); Tobio is dating Ushijima (“But keep that a secret. I promised I wouldn’t tell, but I’m so drunk and I trust you, so don’t tell him I told you.”); he’s not a virgin.

“Who was your first?”

Shoyo’s face is red from the alcohol and the memory. “Oikawa Tooru… the setter from Aoba Johsai. It was when we were in Brazil. He plays for an Argentinean team now. You?” 

Atsumu doesn’t want to admit that his body count is a grand total of zero. It’s a little embarrassing that he’s this hot and this sexless. “It’s not that important.” He takes a swig of beer, cheeks blush pink. 

Shoyo laughs and leans into Atsumu’s side, rests his head on his shoulder. “You’re right. It’s not important.”

Shoyo puts his hand on his thigh, and Atsumu’s heart shakes.  _ It’s the beer _ , he tells himself when he wraps his arms around Shoyo’s shoulders to pull him closer.  _ It’s the time,  _ he tells himself when their mouths slot together and Atsumu gives his second kiss away to his wing spiker.  _ It’s the desperation,  _ he tells himself when he gets Shoyo to his bedroom.

Shoyo laughs as Atsumu presses him into the sheets and kisses down his neck, hands rucking his shirt up. The few years of training on the beach have toned Shoyo’s abdomen, smooth and taut, and Atsumu knows in the next few years they’ll become even more toned and tighter. A six pack is just on the horizon, and it makes his hips quake. Shoyo takes advantage of Atsumu’s dazed thoughts to grab his waist with his thighs, flips them so that Atsumu is lying down. 

“What the fuck,” he breathes, reeling at how strong Shoyo’s thighs are. His hands slide over the curves, the tight muscle. Shoyo steals his breath in an instant, kisses into his mouth like a dying man in search of water and Atsumu is a whole ocean free for the taking. 

_ It’s  _ **_him,_ ** he tells himself when they’re chest to chest, hip to hip, his heart pounding against his rib cage as if trying to burst out of his chest and crawl into Shoyo’s. 

Between the hip stuttering and the captured kisses, Atsumu forgets that Osamu is home tonight, forgets he sleeps just a few feet away from his bedroom, forgets that in the morning he’ll be harassed about his late-night bedsheet tussles after Shoyo sneaks out for his morning jog.

“Who topped?” Osamu jeers, eyeing the dark splotches on Atsumu’s neck.

Atsumu slaps a hand over his neck and throws a pillow at him. “None of yer fuckin’ business.” 

He refuses to break out his pain relievers.

**Author's Note:**

> you can decide who atsumu's first kiss was uwu 
> 
> catch me on [twt](http://twitter.com/wenjunslut)


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